He sighed. “Listen, Row, Felicity’s okay. She’s just fine and Charlee’s with ‘er. So don’t worry about that.”
“What the…” I started. “Okay…but, what’s going on? Why is she even involved? She… She didn’t…”
He shook his head and then gestured at me with one hand. “What? No… No, she was with Charlee. She didn’t go all kinky Twilight Zone or anything, so that’s all good…”
“Then what’s going on?”
He sighed. “Apparently your front yard just became the killer’s latest dump site.”
I muttered, “Damn that bitch…” I sighed heavily as I closed my eyes then reached up with both hands and began massaging my scalp. Oddly enough, I think the gesture was more out of habit than anything else because there was no pain.
I still felt nothing.
In fact, I realized in that moment that not only did I feel nothing, but also for the first time in a very long while, the din inside my skull had fallen quiet. No screams, no murmurs, not even a whisper.
The voices of the dead were gone, and it seemed I was very much alone.
CHAPTER 16
Ben had affixed his magnetic-based emergency light to the roof of his van, and it was sending out oscillating waves of bright red as he whipped the vehicle through quiet intersections, completely ignoring speed limits and traffic signals in the process. Riding with him was always an adventure to begin with, and when an emergency was involved, it was akin to being aboard a runaway train. Fortunately, there wasn’t much traffic to get in his way at this hour.
In my usual attempt at self-preservation, I cinched my seatbelt even tighter and tried to keep my eyes focused forward through the windshield. However, even with that, I could feel the bottom drop out of my stomach when we arced along the ramp from I-70 to I-170 Southbound. For a moment or two, I found myself wishing I had one of the airsickness bags from my recent flight handy.
I couldn’t see the speedometer from where I was sitting, but my best guess was that we had to have been traveling at better than eighty miles per hour because by the time all was said and done, it had only taken us five minutes to reach I-64. Shortly after that, we were turning down my street, and although we were still a few blocks away, in the distance we could already see the flickering lights of the squad cars in front of my house. Their stark flashes of red and white strobed like an ugly blemish on the night, and once again the pit of my stomach was gone.
Blowing through the stop signs as the blocks ticked past, it took less than a minute for us to reach our destination. My friend had barely started braking the van when I unbuckled my seatbelt and grabbed the handle on the sliding side door.
“Dammit, Row!” he shouted. “Hold on a sec! Ya’ can’t get…”
I didn’t hear the rest of his comment because I had already levered the door backward on its raspy tracks and then launched myself through the opening. The vehicle was literally still rolling when my feet hit the pavement. Although I stumbled, I somehow managed to keep my footing and started jogging toward my house. I probably would have stepped it up and broken into a dead run had it not been for the uniformed officer who met me at the end of the driveway.
“Whoa!” he barked, one hand out toward me and the other resting on his sidearm. “Hold up! Where do you think you’re going?”
I stumbled to a halt and spat, “Where does it look like?”
“Lockup if you keep being a smartass,” he replied without missing a beat. “Now how about answering my question?”
My next response was more in line with what he was after but still flat and succinct. I pointed past him and said, “In the house. I live here.”
“Okay. Are you Mister O’Brien?”
“Gant, actually,” I replied. “Felicity O’Brien is my wife. Is she still in there?”
He nodded. “Calm down. The detectives are taking her statement. I’m going to need to see some ID, sir.”
I sighed and reached for my wallet. Before I could fully extract it from my pocket, however, Ben drew up alongside me, his badge hanging around his neck on a thick cord.
“Detective Storm, Major Case Squad,” he told the officer while flashing his official ID. Then he wagged his thumb at me. “It’s okay. Go ahead an’ sign ‘im in, he really does live here. And besides, he’s actually a consultant for the MCS.”
By now I had my driver’s license in my hand and was holding it out to the cop. He went ahead and gave it a cursory glance then nodded.
“Okay, you can put that away now, Mister Gant,” he told me, then made a half turn and called to another officer who was positioned at the opposite corner of the yard where the crux of the activity was going on. “Yo, Foreman. I need that log over here for a sec… Hey… Foreman…” He glanced quickly back to us as he started trekking toward the man with the sign-in sheet. “Hang on…”
Once he was out of earshot, my friend grumbled at me, “See, Row? I tried ta’ tell ya’ ta’ fuckin’ wait.”
I didn’t respond. I was too busy being mesmerized by the gruesome carnival that had taken up residence in my front yard. A sagging ribbon of bright yellow crime-scene tape cordoned off my property line, extending out past the sidewalk and even beyond the curb itself. Spotlights from a pair of squad cars were aimed at the area, and a stark pool of light filled the lawn. Swimming in it was a woman wearing a windbreaker emblazoned with the words CRIME SCENE UNIT, a clipboard and numbered tent-shaped markers in hands. The true centerpiece of the entire spectacle, however, was the nude body sprawled on the grass.
As much as I hated to admit it, over the years I had become increasingly jaded about crime scenes. Once you’d stood in the middle of enough of them, the experience tended to take on a clinical edge. It was always surreal in its own way but dispassionate nonetheless. Each scene was different, and each was the same. Every one of them had a story to tell—and often times even more than one if you listened closely enough. You just had to figure out which voices were telling you the truth.
But, this one was different.
Here, my repetition-cultivated indifference was overpowered by the pain of violation. Variations of this scene had played out on this very ground far too many times.
When Eldon Porter had come here to kill me…
When Felicity was kidnapped…
When Miranda had left her first calling card…
Just to name a few.
And now, it was happening yet again. While it was almost certain that our home held some sort of morbid record for the most instances as an active crime scene, it was one of those dubious honors I definitely could have done without. As callous as I had become about such things, I could simply never get used to having the horror land directly on my doorstep.
Ben, apparently misunderstanding my daze, offered in a consoling voice, “She’s okay, Row. I already told ya’ that. Relax.”
I remained mute and continued to watch splashes of red and white from the active light bars atop the municipal police cruisers as they flickered across the fronts of my neighbors’ houses—and in some instances, my neighbors’ faces. Even at well past midnight, some of them were intent on gawking. No big surprise really because I’d seen it before. I would have liked to think there was an element of compassion in the stares, but unfortunately, I knew better. I’d learned way too much about human nature to believe that was true. Besides, empathy definitely didn’t fit with the rumors that had been circulating about us around our neighborhood for the past few years.
Ben gave my arm a nudge. “Hey, white man. Did’ja hear what I said? She’s fine. Felicity’s okay. Stop worryin’.”
I finally nodded. “Yeah…I know, Ben. I know. But…I’m not entirely sure that I am.”
“What? You gettin’ ready ta’ zone out on us?” he asked.
“I really don’t think so,” I replied.
“Okay. So what’s wrong?”
“I’m not exactly sure… I mean…it’s strange… There’s nothing there, Ben. I’m not feeling any
thing…”
“Ya’ mean like physically, or like the la-la land shit?”
“The la-la land,” I echoed as I shook my head. “I’m not connecting. It’s weird.”
“It’s prob’ly just ‘cause you’re wore out, Row.”
“Maybe… But that’s never made…” Before I could finish the thought, I was interrupted by the uniformed officer returning with the crime scene log.
“Here,” he said as he came walking back toward us and offered Ben a clipboard. “You know the drill.”
My friend quickly scribbled his information on the page and then handed it to me. “So…you were sayin’?”
“Being exhausted has never affected me like this before.” I mimicked my friend’s actions and then returned the log to the officer. “Usually it’s the opposite.”
Ben shrugged. “Yeah, well you’re good for a lotta firsts, ya’know. Maybe this is just somethin’ new.”
“Maybe,” I returned. “But whatever it is, something just isn’t right.”
“Man…” he mumbled as he shook his head. “I hate when you say shit like that. It usually means somethin’ bad’s about ta’ happen, and we’re gonna be in the middle of it.”
“It’s already happening, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, but I mean somethin’ worse. You’re pretty fuckin’ good for that darkest before it goes completely black crap too, ya’know.” Ben pulled the crime scene tape upward and jerked his head toward the house. “Well c’mon…”
I started to duck under but stopped halfway through and asked, “Where’s Constance?”
“She was makin’ some calls,” he answered, glancing back toward his van then back to me. “Yeah…she’s still sittin’ there. Looks like she ain’t done just yet. She’ll prob’ly be along in a bit.” As he finished the sentence, he motioned for me to keep moving.
I nodded then continued beneath the tape and started up the driveway with my friend close behind. I was still several yards from the near end of the flagstone walk when the front door of the house opened and a man I recognized to be one of the aforementioned detectives stepped out onto the porch. My wife followed behind him almost immediately.
With the exception of a few stray curls, her fiery auburn hair was pulled back into a ponytail, revealing her pale ivory face. Her expression was hard, and I could see her lips moving as she spoke to the cop, but at this distance I couldn’t actually hear what she was saying. The moment I saw her I broke into a jog and yelled out, “Felicity!”
Several people on the scene turned and glanced toward me when I made the abrupt call, but my wife was the only one who mattered. The second she made eye contact she came bounding down the front stairs. Increasing my jog to a brisk run, I met her at the bottom.
“Damnaigh go saigh…” She growled the words softly in my ear as she fell into me and looped her arms around my neck. “Damnaigh a, damnaigh a…”
Not only was she slipping into Irish Gaelic, her normal background Celtic lilt had thickened noticeably. That was a sure sign she was either tired, angry, or both. Judging from the hour and harshness of the words themselves, my money was on the latter of the three.
“I know,” I soothed, slipping my arms about her waist and pulling her close. “I know… I said the same thing when I heard… Are you okay?”
“No,” she said, her heavy brogue wrapping itself around a voice sharply edged with sarcasm. “I’m not okay. And I won’t be okay until that ban-àibhistear is gone forever.”
“I understand…”
“I wish you’d just killed her then.”
Given our present company, I was glad that our conversation was taking place in close quarters and hushed tones, although I had no doubt we could still be heard.
I replied, “You don’t mean that.”
“Aye, but I do.”
“That wouldn’t stop Miranda, honey. You know that.”
“Aye…” she sighed heavily. “But this has to end, Rowan… It has to…” Her words were a staunch demand as opposed to a weeping lament.
“It will. It will…”
“Aye, but how?”
I sighed. Right now I was just trying to say the right thing, whether it was true or not. Unfortunately, I simply didn’t have a solid answer for her. “We’ll figure something out…”
“We’d better soon or I’ll just go kill her myself. I swear I will…”
I felt a tap on my shoulder then heard Ben’s questioning voice, “Hey… Row?”
“Yeah, Ben?” I replied, turning slightly though still holding tight to my wife.
“I…” he started hesitantly, giving us a careful once over. It was obvious he wasn’t sure quite what either of our emotional states might be at the moment, so he was treading lightly. “Look…I hate ta’ interrupt ya’… And, listen…Felicity…if ya’ still need some time or somethin’ I can back off… But…”
Hearing his comment, she immediately loosened her grip and pushed back from me enough so that she could look him in the eye. Shaking her head, she admonished, “Aye, Ben, get your fekking head out of your arse. You know I’m not some whining sap, then. I’m just pissed off.”
He huffed out a breath and nodded. “Yeah…s’pose I forgot who I was dealin’ with there for a minute… Guess I shoulda figured that out from the accent, huh?”
As usual, my wife retorted, “I don’t have an accent. You do.”
“Oh yeah, I can see you’re just fine,” he replied with a slightly relieved tone and then jerked his head toward the illuminated yard. “So, anyway, Row, ya’ wanna have a look at this before they haul the body off ta’ the morgue?”
I looked over my shoulder then reluctantly let go of Felicity and turned fully toward the horror. The crime scene investigator was still walking her grid-like search pattern around the involved section of the lawn. Thus far, not a single one of the numbered markers had left her hands, which wasn’t a big surprise. From all appearances, the dump had been quick, and since the ground was fairly dry, the chances of any collateral evidence such as shoeprints would be slim. Still, it was always a possibility, so they had to go through all the motions just in case.
Allowing my gaze to drift to the center of the tableau, I could see that a death investigator from the county medical examiner’s office had recently joined the fray. I didn’t think he could have been on-site very long because I hadn’t noticed him when we signed in. Of course, at this point there was little for him to do here, save for transport the body, which is something he appeared to be preparing to do. He had a rubberized body bag already spread out nearby, and at the moment, he was engaged in the process of paper-bagging the victim’s hands so as to protect any possible evidence.
I continued to watch in silence as the two of them worked independently of one another. Usually by this point on a scene, I would be all but blinded by a preternatural migraine, as the dead would be attempting to use my brain as a stage for an esoteric play. A disjointed horror drama, fraught with hidden messages I would then be forced to decipher. This was my unofficial job—to be a lightning rod and personal translator for tortured spirits with a story to tell. It was what I was used to doing.
But at this particular moment, I wasn’t being a very good employee.
All I could sense was a mind-numbing silence filling my skull. The constant din of voices was still squelched for the first time in many years, and in that quiet, it occurred to me that this really was what it was like to be “normal.” Then, as I stood there wondering why this was happening, a recent conversation rolled through my tired grey matter.
“Them,” she repeated. “The dead. I can make them leave you alone.”
At that moment I realized exactly who had control of the ethereal volume knob. Unfortunately, it definitely wasn’t me.
Ben gave me a verbal nudge. “Row?”
“I’m sorry,” I replied, my voice flat.
“Seriously, Kemosabe…ya’ sure you’re not goin’ Twilight Zone?”
I shook
my head. “I can’t.”
“Whaddaya’ mean, ya’ can’t?”
“I mean I can’t. Not anymore.”
“Are you okay?”
I sighed. “I guess that depends on what you mean by okay.”
“Dammit, Row… Don’t be difficult. You know what I mean.”
“I’m sorry… I’m not trying to be… But…they’re gone… I don’t think I can help you with this, Ben.”
“You still ain’t makin’ sense. Whaddaya mean gone? They who?”
“The visions… The voices… All of it…”
He shook his head. “No Twilight Zone?”
“No,” I replied.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes…I’m sure. I can’t help you with this, Ben… To be honest, right now I’m not even sure I can help myself…”
CHAPTER 17
Steam spewed from the gap around the small filter basket on the half-sized coffeemaker, alternating between light wisps and briefly pressurized jets, as the machine slurped the last of the water from its reservoir with a loud gurgle. Still caught up in a misty haze somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, I watched it with quiet anticipation while standing at the counter and holding an empty ceramic mug cradled in my hand.
The machine heaved a final moist sigh, sending out a cloud of dissipating vapor as it sputtered and then wheezed itself into silence. I gave a languid glance to the side at the small microwave positioned immediately next to it. If the clock on its face was correct, it was pushing 7 a.m. That meant I was already more than an hour off my normal morning schedule. But then, I didn’t really have any place to be but here, so I don’t suppose it mattered all that much.
“Mmmmm…” my wife murmured sleepily as she padded up and slipped her arms around me from behind then squeezed, pressing herself against my back. Letting out a long sigh, she mumbled, “You’re being awfully noisy this morning, you know.”
Miranda: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 15